When people tell me “how good” Arabella is, my usual response is to smile politely and dryly add, “Until she’s not.” Because it’s true. Arabella is SO good. A 99.9% of the time angel baby. But the other .1%? All bets are off. Last night was the .1%.
The timing was nothing short of ironic. On Friday, I had literally been bragging to our friend who was visiting about our parenting style. I told told him there were two types of parents- those who operate on their kid’s schedule and those whose kids operate on their schedule. I proudly explained how we had decided very early on to be the latter– and what a good decision it had been. We NEVER left a party early because of bedtime. I never missed a lunch date because of nap time. If we want to do something, Arabella does it too.
The meltdown didn’t come during brunch at Yolk. No, there Arabella happily ate pancakes and crispy breakfast potatoes. She sipped her milk with a smug smile on her face as if to say, “I eat out like this ALL the time, Uncle Brian.”
So when we made reservations at Hugo’s Frog Bar Saturday night, there was no reason to think Arabella would be anything short of angelic. She is a restaurant pro. Historically, the nicer, the better. After all, her first dining out experience was at Smith & Wollensky just three weeks after she was born.
I had Jarmon put her in a cute navy blue Sailor dress that she had never worn. Overdressed? Undoubtedly, but summer was over and she was going to outgrow it before next summer.
Dinner started out splendidly. Arabella devoured the bread basket while we ordered drinks. Apple juice for her, a cocktail for Jarmon, a beer for Brian and wine for me. Yes, wine. I have a rule that when you eat a nice meal out it’s wrong to not also have a nice glass of wine— and my babies need to learn this early. As I nursed said glass of wine, I asked the waiter to put in a side order of fries for Arabella. She was happy, but it was going to be a while before our entrees arrived.
As we waited for the fries, Arabella made friends with the people around us. She also listened intently as the waiter talked us through the fresh seafood specials on his tray. It was as if she was pondering whether to order the lobster tail or king crab.
Then her fries arrived. She was mad that I made her wait until they cooled down to eat them, but they were HOT. She started to get fussy, so I blew on one and gave it to her. I even gave her the cup of ketchup as an added bonus. Why? Because, she loves ketchup. And she wasn’t wearing the sailor dress again anyway. And honestly, I was trying to maximize our chances at a peaceful meal (we had even upped our usual 8p rezzie to 7p).
She was happily dipping a single fry repeatedly into the ketchup (“Would you like some fries with that ketchup, Miss?”)— and alternately gnawing the crust from the bread that had accumulated in front of me. It was during this, what seemed like a glorious toddler carb-fest, that the meltdown began. It was subtle at first. She wanted nothing to do with her toy cell phone. Began squirming in her high chair. Low-pitch whining. Then, as Jarmon and Brian ate their crab cake appetizer, the volume slowly increased… to the point that I suggested Jarmon take her out of the high chair. And with that- the flood gates were open. The tantrum had been acknowledged and there was no going back. The low-pitch whining turned to full blown screaming. I suggested to Jarmon that he take her outside to get some fresh air for a minute. It was pretty stuffy in the restaurant and I naively thought a little cool off time may help. I would have done it myself, but I wasn’t confident in my ability to carry her through the packed restaurant (we were seated in the very back room) in my pregnant, broken-footed state.
Jarmon returned a few minutes later and she seemed appeased. But as soon as our salads arrived and she went back into the high chair- BOOM. She wasn’t having it. She started reaching for me, so I put her on my lap thinking that would solve the problem. But no, whatever the problem, my lap was not going to solve it. At this point she was hysterically wailing— and despite my concerns about getting her out of the restaurant in my gimpy state— I knew I needed to get her away from all of the people around us who were celebrating birthdays, anniversaries and other special occasions over expensive meals as quickly as possible. And not wanting to further interrupt my husband’s meal with a good friend he doesn’t see that often, I stood up and started the trek toward the door. Given my gimp state, the walk out took about four times longer than it should have (which meant four time longer to collect stares of pity), but we made it to the sidewalk. It was only then I realized that being outside wasn’t really making less of a disruption because we were in the Gold Coast on a beautiful fall night and outdoor diners were quite literally everywhere. Eating just as nice of meals as the people inside.
As I was trying to calm my kid (who was literally falling out of my arms at this point as I stood on one foot) on the sidewalk— an angelic couple stopped to help. A woman and her husband asked Arabella if she wanted a toy ambulance— because they had two. It didn’t help in the moment, but the gesture was beyond kind.
I tried to stand Arabella down on the ground for a minute- mainly to give my arm, foot and consequently back, a rest- thinking maybe I could interest her in the ambulance toy, but she wasn’t having it. People were starting to stare.
I decided the best course of action would be to walk around the corner— get her away from the outdoor diners. But as I triumphantly turned the corner, I realized that the next block was filled with outdoor diners too. And quite frankly, I couldn’t walk any further.
I walked back to Hugo’s, where the kind ambulance-gifters were still waiting for their car, and called Jarmon. (Thank goodness I had the presence of mind to take my phone with me). Dinner was over for Arabella and I. I needed my wallet. We were going home.
It wasn’t until I got in the back of a cab and realized my boot barely fit in the cramped back seat that I remembered I hadn’t taken Arabella in or out of the house myself in going on two months now. How the HECK was I getting her into the house while Jarmon stayed to enjoy dinner??
I would figure that out when I got there- worst case scenario, we’d sit at the bottom of the steps- first I needed to keep the cab driver from kicking me and my hysterical kid out of this ride that we so desperately needed.
After what seemed like ten minutes of sitting in traffic, I began to wonder if I should be taking her to the hospital instead of home. Why on earth was she so upset? Did she burn her mouth? Cut her mouth? Have something in her throat? I began to fear the worst— all the while ignoring how I was getting Arabella into the house.
I called jarmon to ask his opinion, but between Arabella screaming and the ambient noise of the restaurant, I may as well have been talking to myself. The cab driver- either sensing my desperation, or revealing some of his own- seemed to be driving especially fast.
When we got to the house, I threw the cab drive $20 to cover our $10 fare. He very kindly offered to carry my purse and diaper bag to the door for me. A generous offer, I politely declined. I maneuvered my way onto the curb and through the gate with my purse (which I was carrying for the first time in about two months), diaper bag and still screaming kid in tow. I decided the front steps (that don’t have a railing) might be a bit ambitious, so we trekked to the back. I hobbled up the two outdoor steps by setting Arabella down at the top, walking up, then picking her back up. Then we got inside. My hope was that maybe she’d want to crawl up the steps— something she loves that I usually forbid. No such luck. She sat on the cold landing wailing so hysterically that her face was bright red and her lip was quivering. I had to get her upstairs… and fast. As I picked her up, she let out a huge burp. I was hoping this might be the answer— but again, no such luck. More crying. So we did the only thing possible. We started up the stairs. One at a time. Me, praying with each step, that we didn’t both go tumbling down.
After what seemed like an eternity, we made it to the top. I collapsed at the top and took a break as Arabella continued to scream. When I was finally able to pick her (and myself) back up, we went to the kitchen for a popsicle. She wanted nothing to do with it. I set it on the counter- something I would have no doubt berated jarmon for doing- and moved to the couch. Her blankie! It HAD to be the solution. It helped, but didn’t fix whatever was wrong. So, I turned on Johnny Johnny Yes Papa. Again, it helped, but happiness was not being achieved. Finally, I took off the sailor dress and stripped her to her diaper. And then, the results were instantaneous. The child that had been crying hysterically for the last hour was suddenly fine. She curled up in my lap with her blanket, sucked he’s thumb and happily watched TV.
I was afraid to move because I didn’t want to disturb the peace. But I did manage to text jarmon and tell him to enjoy his meal- Arabella was fine. Whatever had been wrong, it wasn’t any of the life or death worst case scenarios I’d come up with.
I checked the dress to see if there was a pin- or some other sharp object in it- that was causing her distress, but found nothing. She did have a big red mark on her back- presumably from a seam on the dress- but could that have been the reason for the meltdown? The world will never know.
Arabella and I hung out until jarmon and brian got home. She went from content to downright happy— even cheering when “if you’re happy and you know it” came on the TV. At some point, she pooped and jarmon changed her diaper. Arabella was happiest snuggled up to me, so I didn’t want to move. But finally around 1130, I needed food. I hobbled to the kitchen for some leftover pizza, which ended up being consumed mostly by Arabella and Baxter. But you know what? They were both happy. And who needs the best steak in Chicago (and a rare glass of wine) when you can have a few bites of half-heated pizza and two happy kids?
Update: Since I wrote this post over a month ago, the ambulance toy has become a favorite. I seriously can’t tell you how many times it has been the first to be pulled from the toy box. It may not have instantly stopped the tantrum, but it will always be a reminder of a memorable night. So to the kind couple who gave it to us, thank you. This pregnant lady with the broken foot and screaming baby is very grateful for your kindness.
Trina Orlando 